How It Turned Out
by the-speed-reader
Summary: He didn't remember much. Only the feeling of excitement ringing through him, the soft snow falling into the air – before a white hot flame of explosion, his father's arm jerking away from his, threatening blackness creeping among the edge of his vision. *Spitfire, One-shot*


_Hello people of earth! I'm typing with a broken elbow in a neon yellow cast with no sling on (don't tell my doctor) so typing is slightly slower (the cast is all the way up to my upper arm) than usual, but hopefully my writing it still up to par._

_Enjoy!_

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><p>Wally was six and a half when his dad was killed in a brutal explosion that murdered three others and injured countless more.<p>

He didn't remember much. Only the feeling of excitement ringing through him, the soft snow falling into the air – before a white hot flame of explosion, his father's arm jerking away from his, threatening blackness creeping among the edge of his vision.

Six hours later he woke up in a white room resting in a white bed with white sheets. There was a head at his side, snoring softly; but it wasn't the stubble brown hair of his father. It was the quiet and eager swoop of his uncle's bright red hair, so similar to his own despite the two different branches of genetics. His grandmother had red hair, and although his aunt and father were related, they had always looked very different.

People always said he looked more like his mother than his father – same depths of green eyes, same ginger hair that never seemed to stay in place. He had argued, when fronted with the realization, that he had his father's nose and mouth, a feat he was rather proud of for a rather strange reason. But that feeling of warmth, of security, had disappeared the moment the bomb went _boom_.

He remembers not feeling happy for a prolonged stretch of time after – that is until a year or so later, when his uncle and aunt received custody papers and that naive, curious red-haired little boy who found a simple notebook buried underneath boxes in the garage and made the mistake of trying to be like the hero in red spandex that he idolized.

That mistake turned him into the sidekick of the one and only Flash, the man he'd practically _worshiped_ since he was four – the man who turned out to be none other than his uncle.

He'd had his first lesson as Kid Flash when he was ten years old, a wide eyed kid ready to be something more than a science geek. That was also the year Barry and Iris had sat down and told him that she was pregnant. At the time, he was too young to understand what happened when not two weeks later, she lost the baby.

His uncle was depressed for some time after that, but Wally hadn't deterred from his training. When his uncle rose from his sadness, the older man had introduced him to a bright spirited boy and his stern mentor. Robin ad Kid Flash quickly became the best of friends, and against Batman's wishes, Wally learned, under the cover of darkness and secrecy, about the life of one Dick Grayson.

And when they both founded Young Justice, beside a scowling young man and a bright dimpled Martian, they made a promise that they'd always have each other's backs. And they did, even with Wally's numerous battles with a certain blonde haired archer.

If someone would've told his six year old self that his life would've ended up like it did, he wouldn't have believed them, only would have kept swinging his dad's arm as they stepped among the sidewalk, unaware of the bomb smuggled in the back of a truck.

He's lying in a dimly lit room now, in a comfortable bed with thin sheets (they really needed to buy new ones) curled up to his waist and the stunning blonde in his arms, her breath hitting his collarbone with every rise of her chest.

The sunlight is just coming through the curtained windows, spilling over the sheets and the only other piece of furniture in the small room, a simple oak dresser. After the apartment was rented in the student dorms, they couldn't afford much considering they were literally _living _on student loans. The dresser was one that Artemis had taken from her old room in Gotham; the bed was one that his parents had gladly gotten rid of. It was an old one that had been sitting in storage for years.

The digital clock settled on the nightstand to his side blinked digital neon numbers, showing the time a little past seven in the morning. She shifted closer to him, nose snuggling against his neck; he tilted her head down so he could sees her long eyelashes peek out from underneath that long hair of hers, fluttering slightly. Her breathing was even and she was sleeping quietly, something that hadn't happened in a while – nightmares were a constant for a pair of them and they were rarely free to a good night's sleep.

But she was sleeping calmly while he was reminiscing, something he was glad of. It was a Saturday, so that meant no classes, sleeping in, and ignoring all phone calls that came with the caller ID of _Asshole of a Best Friend (Also Known as Richard Grayson)_.

However, she shifted slightly again, her breathing becoming more clear – she was waking up. He shifted down so their faces were even and he was met with the sight of clear gray eyes that were blinking the sleep away.

"Hi," he whispered, stealing a slight kiss to her lips. She smiled, closing her eyes lazily before opening them again.

"Hey," she murmured back, moving her hand from its place around his neck to his chest, tapping her fingers in a rhyme against him. "What's – what time is it?" Her words were slightly slurred, side affect from tiredness.

His thumb moved up towards her face, brushing a strand of blond hair out of her eyes. "It's morning," he muttered, focusing on the flecks of blue in her eyes. "It's sleeping time."

She partly pushed him away, making a movement to step out of the bed. But he reacted at a speed only a speedster could, pulling her flush to his chest. She squirmed in his gasp, but the sheets fell away from the pair as he pulled them upwards, his back hitting the headboard. His hands tightened his grip around her waist as she settled in between his legs, feet tangling.

He moved his head sideways, blowing on her neck. She let out a bout of air when he pressed gentle kisses down her skin.

"Sleep," he whispered into her skin. "Let's go back to sleep."

She squirmed, slightly exasperated. "Wally," she laughed. "We really should get up – we're out of food. Gotta swing by the store."

He pondered this for a moment. "Such as tragedy," he pretended. He didn't need food – he had her.

Maybe if his father hadn't been killed, he wouldn't have become Kid Flash; he never would've joined the team and never would've met Artemis.

And he's damn glad everything happened the way it did.

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><p><em>This is a happier that the one-shot I previously posted. Hope you all enjoyed!<em>


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